Roll With It
by CarrieAnnB
Summary: Emily was raped. She doesn't tell anyone. After finding out she's pregnant, she immediately runs from it, planning to resort to abortion after the one she had when she was fifteen. Hotch seems to think it's a bad idea, and being Hotch, tries to help.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: **First thing I'd like to clarify is that if there is a story alike this one, I want you to know that I had NO idea. I would not have posted it had I of known it was similar to an existing story.

I rated it M because of I may go deeper into detail about her rape later on. Now, I'm not good with rape scenes in general, whether it be in stories or on television, I tend to cringe during them, even though it's fake. Even writing the rape scene for this, I cringed, as vague as it was. I'm rating this M for those of you that are sensitive to the graphic nature of that, as well. Also, I do not want to have limitations for later chapters. I hope you understand.

Review if you have the time- I look forward to them! Thanks for reading. XO.

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

She's biting her thumbnail, watching the clock. She's not a nail-biter; never was, but today she's got the clock on her mind. Today the time is against her, ticking on agonizingly slow. Two minutes just needs to go by, and she can wander off to the bathroom with her cell phone. Two minutes. Two minutes. Two minutes. "I don't think we should commit to this case," Morgan's voice speaks broadly throughout the briefing room, as he's relaxing in the chair, his one elbow propped up on the table, combing his goatee thoughtfully. "I just don't see this as a guy that'll attack again."

Emily pulls her face into her hands, but has to peel them away immediately to snatch another look at the clock. A minute and a half until twelve. They said they'd call at twelve. She just wants to get this over and done with. Soon the awaited call comes in, and the phone starts ringing fervently in her tight pocket. Everyone looks in the direction of the noise, as it sounds loudly, seemingly echoing through the tight briefing room. "That's me." She tells them quietly, standing up, stealing away to pull it from it's tight squeeze. "It's my phone." She makes an apologetic glance, then lands her eyes on Hotch for approval. He stares at her.

"Is it an important call?" he asks sternly, not unlike typical Hotch. She pauses, stares down at the phone buzzing in her hand, the caller ID blinking rambunctiously. Technically, it's a _very _ important call.

"Well, yes, sir," she says quietly, having her thumb already traced over the Send button. "But I guess it can wait -"

"If it's important, take it," Hotch says, gesturing to the door with his hand. "We're not deciding on anything just yet anyway. Go ahead." She sends him a grateful smile before tip-toeing her way carefully through the door, quick to answer the call before it hangs up; presumably it'll only ring once more before it clicks off, sends another beep to inform her she missed a call.

"Hello, hello, yes, I'm here," Emily speaks urgently into the small phone, walking down the hallway of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. People pass by her freely, clutching files, on their way to finish their duties. "This is Emily Prentiss. I called earlier?"

"Yes, I remember. Sorry about that, our computers were down earlier, we couldn't schedule your appointment through our system. It's all good now, though, and we appreciate your patience." The woman says to her, in a radio voice, like she rehearsed it or has told it to people several times within the two hours their computer system has been down. "You still would like to schedule that appointment, correct?"

Emily sucks in a hesitant breath. JJ peeks her head out of the briefing room and looks at Emily. "Hey, Em, we've come to a decision," JJ looks at her invitingly, tilting her head to the side. "When you're done, we need you in here."

Emily nods, mouthing something in response, cupping her four fingers over the phone. "Yes, I'd like to keep that appointment," Emily tells the woman on the phone. "Thanks." For some reason she's not sure of, she felt she owed her a thank-you. Maybe for not judging her on this decision; for accepting her, taking her in; for overlooking her carelessness and possible irresponsibility.

"Alright." The woman says, and the sound of a pen hissing on a piece of paper comes through the phone. Emily waits; looks behind her, at the opened door of the briefing room, where everyone is waiting for her. She prays this will hurry on up. And not just the phone call, everything in general. This whole disgusting situation. She wants to wipe it from her life cleanly, like when you sop up a mess with a cloth. The surface stains gone. "How far along are you again? I'm sorry, I fo-"

"Five weeks." Emily blurts into the phone, whispering it shamefully. She peers around her self-consciously, afraid somebody overheard, staring her down, shaking their heads with disgrace.

"Okay," the scribbling of the pen sounds through again. Scribble, scribble, scribble. "When would you like to have this procedure done? It's best to have it done as soon as possible-"

"Whenever is fine," Emily says again hurriedly, just wanting to hang up already. She wants to slide back into the briefing room, back to when things were simple. Handling serial killers, debating on which cases to take charge on; those types of things she can handle head-on. Not this. Not again. "Whenever someone can take me in. Soon as possible."

"Okay then," the woman writes again. Clicking noise. She's typing her appointment on the computer. Emily's file locked and sealed into a system. She hopes someday that system will crash again, lose all of her files, swimming into a sea of history. If it's erased from all physical evidence, maybe she can erase the mental evidence. "Is this your first pregnancy?"

"No," she recalls the memory, of being that fifteen year-old girl, pregnant and lonely and scared. Not so much unlike now. Except she's not fifteen anymore and she's not ashamed for the same reason. But she's still ashamed. Add poorly cut bangs and a shorter hair cut and she could trick herself into believing she's still that teenage girl. "I was pregnant when I was fifteen. I'm thirty-eight now."

"Did you have an abortion then, as well?" the woman asks this gently, but it comes back to Emily as an insult.

She lowers her head, spent. "Yes." she breathes out.

"Okay, miss," the loud clicking of a finger slamming on a keypad, sending away her information to the system. To the world. It's final. Another click; sounding harsh and judgmental. "Your appointment is for February 27th, 3 P.M. Does that sound okay?"

"Yeah, that's fine," guess she will have to make up some excuse on why she can't make it into work that day. Saying a Doctor's appointment wouldn't be too much of a lie. Actually, it's not really a lie at all. Not revealing information technically is not the same as not telling the truth. "I'll be there."

"Okay, we'll see you then. Goodbye, have a nice day."

"You too," Emily says back, but she thinks the woman clicked off the phone before hearing her. February 27th the throwing up will stop. The tender breasts, the allover sore feeling will be diminished, thrown into the past, sailing down a mess of memories and regrets.

* * *

It was cold outside. Isn't it always bad weather when something horrible occurs? Does it always seem to fall on a gloomy day naturally? She remembers it was cold and rainy and dreary, because her hair was soaked and the freshly clipped ends of it was sticking to the FBI vest she had on. Her make-up was beginning to fade due to the heavy wind and rain, and her cheeks were flushed. Confident, she walked inside, the small barn on the far left of the residence they had located, alone. Inside the small barn, was patches of hay, tools stacked in the corner; a wrench here, a tool kit there. Nothing too alarming. Her boots kicked around a rock or two, digging up stray pieces of hay, dirt on the ground. She'd just began snooping around when he sneaks around the corner. Tall, lengthy in his legs and stomach, hunched over slightly. He had choppy short black hair, thick eyebrows and a small beauty mark on the right side of his face. His smile was permanently crooked, and his clothes were stylish but dirty. He had on this green army jacket, two sizes too big for him, falling loosely over his frail shoulders jutting out. The sound of straw cracking under his shoes filled the air like a whisper in the night, and the wind gushed on outside the opened barn doors. He'd made it to her. He'd made it over to her, quick, leaving her unguarded; enough time to cover her mouth with his greasy oil-stained palm, and to wrap his other free arm around her unsuspecting waist. Try as she did to kick, squirm, bite, scream, it was effortless. He dragged her over to a safe spot behind where she'd be invisible, her legs all the while resisting, buckling as she drove her legs forward, then backward to kick him. He tightened his hand over her mouth, squeezing her waist tucked under his arm. He wasn't dumb. No, they'd profiled him long enough to know he was far from dumb.

He walked with a slight slouch and had an arrogance about him unknown to most parts of the world, but his unmotivated and quiet way of speaking lead people to underestimate him; to assume he was far from intelligent. Rather, he was very brilliant. Storing information somewhere in his thick head, chaos stirring into a dark abyss, ready to explode. He'd taken women, like he'd taken her, storing them in the back of the barn. Shoving them down into the scratchy hay, defeating them. How he stripped them of so much more than innocence, or their clothing, or their ability to control what happens to them. He stripped them of the ability to trust men, to trust the world, to trust the hometown they grew up in, and then, when he was ready, he stripped them of life altogether. Not unlike other victims, he had in mind exactly what he'd first do to Emily. But unlike other victims, Emily had came prepared. Her gun laid near the tallest stack of hay in the front of the barn, lying there, unused. She'd dropped it at the shock of her mouth being cupped closed and her waist being squeezed until it was too hard to breathe. With her weapon safely tucked out of reach, he tightened his grip around her, his arm now pinching her stomach, sending a pain soaring up to her ribcage.

"What are you doing here, sweetheart?" he cooed quietly in her hair. With that, she tried to drive her boot directly into his shin. He winced, as the tip of her heel caught an inch or so of his leg, but he didn't loosen his grip. She muttered soundless words into his palm, making it hot from her breath, then tried her hardest to scream. Though he appeared lanky and weightless behind his frumpy clothes, he was trained at lifting heavy things, with arm muscles flexing to prove it, and was definitely skilled at taking women. He pulled his arm away from her stomach just long enough to grasp the silver duct tape on the storage shelf in the back, where his tools laid. She squeezed her eyes shut at the duct tape, knowing full well that it's never good when your mouth is concealed. Then there's no way anyone will hear you.

Quickly, he unwrapped the duct tape, making a sharp noise that echoed through the barn. He taped her wrists, her mouth, then lastly, her ankles. At that point, she could hardly stand. He shoved her to the ground, sounds of hay and sticks and rocks groaning under her weight. He stood above the storage shelf, from Emily's point of view from the ground, admiring his tools thoughtfully. He thought about which to use. She squealed and shook on the ground, thinking of ways to make her escape. She caught glimpse of the full moon peering in through the opened barn doors, calling out to her. A full moon, bright as could be, shining down on her, igniting the sky like a flame. The moon, so full and bright and beautiful, it almost looked like a prop in a movie. It almost looked like a bulb in a ceiling light. It almost looked close enough to touch. If only there was a man on the moon; maybe he could have saved her.

The sound of metal clinking above her height from the ground made her tremble more, finding it impossible to imagine what he could be grabbing to use on her. Metal clinked once more before he turned around, unveiling a long piece of gardening scissors. She gasped behind the tape concealing her mouth, tight and pulling on her skin. She felt her eyes tear up, expecting the pain to be excruciating, already somehow feeling it. She could just envision the scissors ripping through her tender skin, for his viewing pleasure. But instead, he snipped the duct tape around her ankles, reacting quickly. Just as she lifted them to kick him in the throat, he grabbed a strong hold of her thin ankles, pressing them down. Her heels dug into the ground. She cried and whimpered, knowing she'd lost another chance to make her escape. He grinned, pleased with himself, as he tore her from her pants. When the button came undone, she shuddered. When the zipper fly unzipped with a sound so piercing and frightening, she winced. When she felt the soft cotton inside material of the pants slide down her cold, bare legs, she felt tears form into her eyes. She wasn't trying to kick him anymore, because she couldn't. She was terrified to move, knowing how many tools he had up on that shelf, right above them. She laid there, unmoved, hoping her team would think to check outback. They would come roaring in, saving the day. But not quick enough, they didn't.

He messed with the buttons carelessly on her button-down white shirt, but eventually he grew bored, once the buttons wouldn't budge quick enough for him. She closed her eyes, digging her fingernails hard into the dirt patch beneath her tied wrists. She listened to the sound of gravel as tires squished it each time another car passed down the road, a little distance from there. She focused on the sound of her ragged fingernail scratching at the small rock underneath her; the feeling of dirt piling underneath her fingernails; cold and moist. He slid his hands, rough and oily, up her thighs slowly, as if to set the mood. As if he was giving foreplay. As if she was enjoying it. He left kisses on her ankles, at the spot where the tape bore into her skin like rug burn. He held both hands down on her ankles, pressing them together. She was trying to escape, in a different way; land somewhere, worlds away from this place. She couldn't help but wonder if this is what all of the girls had done; had they escaped after all? Mentally, that is. With his other hand, he fumbled with the belt of his jeans, which was holding them up. His jeans, too, were a size or two too big. Without the need to unzip or unbutton, he slipped out of his jeans, falling on top of her body like she wasn't a human being, but something faded away. Like she was already dead, decomposing. He combed a bang away from her face. She shut her eyes.

"I'm so glad you're taking this so well." He whispered to her face, tracing his fingertips over the silver glistening duct tape, where the outline of her pursed lips stuck out. He traced the outline softly, smiling down at her like she was his lover, rather than his victim. "You know if you're a good girl, I won't kill you." She tried to believe him. God, wouldn't that be nice? If she gave him what he wanted from her, he would let her go. Naively, she tried to buy into that. All she wanted was to escape. But prematurely, she called the battle a loss. She figured she was out before she even gave herself a chance to fight. He forced her legs apart. She laid there, stiff, unaware, eyes still closed. If she opened them, by some chance, she promised herself she'd look beyond his jutting shoulder blades, to the full moon. It wasn't long before she felt him make his way inside of her, rough and hard and careless. He drove in, without any recollection of her existing at all. She may as well already been dead. She squeezed her eyes shut, until they burned, until tears fell from not only the sheer horror of it all, but the pain of not being able to close her eyes any more than they already were. Lights flickered behind her eyelids, colors streaming, shapes forming, from keeping them closed too long. The longer he remained on top of her, the longer she spent lifeless. He said things to her during the act, but she hadn't heard anything but the harshness of his voice. The way he sweet-talked her like he cared, as he watched her tears fall, her body quiver not from enjoyment of the act but fear and disgust. He might have only been with her for ten minutes, but it felt like years passed before she realized he was no longer on top of her; actually, he was done.

Now what would become of her? Could she be any more of a better victim than she already was? She stopped resisting; she didn't encourage him to stop by kicking, screaming, biting, throwing a tantrum. She was too scared by the sharpness of the blade on the scissors to attempt stopping him. She finally opened her eyes, and the light from the moon felt like razor blades when she witnessed it, seeing as her eyes were unaccustomed to anything but darkness. He was indeed done with her, still in his boxers, touching his tools on the shelf. She curled her knees up to her, feeling exposed, unable to say anything. Her underwear laid somewhere near her pants, she'd noticed, but couldn't remember feeling him shed them off of her. He turned around, sharp tools abound, the haughty metal of it catching light. She couldn't stop staring at the tools; he watched them with empowerment and admiration; she watched them with paralyzing panic. He lowered down to her with his large knife, turning her around. She kept her eyes closed, hard again. He grabbed her hand, pulled it closer to him. She could almost feel the pain tearing through her; her skin being ripped open. But instead, the sound of loud clipping filled the air, but it was the duct tape around her wrists slicing open, not her. She still squealed at the very horrifying sound. He yanked her wrists free of all duct tape, then climbed on top of her, threatening the blade to her throat. "Come on," he taunted viciously. "Fight me."

Hay cracking, boots slamming on hard ground. They were here. They'd discovered the place she wandered off to. They were coming to save her. Suddenly scared, he jumped off of her, running with his sharp-bladed knife. Running, running for his life. His shoes hitting the ground hard evaporated into the distance. She crawled over to her clothes, pulled them on haphazardly, knowing they'd be in here really soon. She buttoned up, zipped herself, and lastly, ripped off the duct tape around her mouth with one mighty thrust of a yank. She cried, holding her mouth in her hand, feeling like she tore off the first layer of her lips. The duct tape crunched under her boot as she dropped it and walked over it, back to the front of the barn. Hotch was inside, gun drawn. He lowered it the second he saw Emily, hair tousled, mouth red and marked. Hands held behind her back like they were still restrained. "Emily!" he said breathlessly, racing over to her. "Did you... God, look at you... Did you find him? Did he hurt you?"

She shook her head. _Did I what, Hotch? Did I let him rape me? Yes, I did. And I know, look at me. I'm disgusting. Yes, I found him. And yes, he hurt me. More than you know._ Hotch touched her arm, then her face. "What happened, Emily? Are you hurt?" he leveled his eyes to her.

"I fell," she said instinctively, poorly lying. She didn't have enough time to cram together a decent story. "I slipped and fell back there." She could have helped the case had she of spoken up. But then she'd get those looks, and those sympathetic hugs. Then she'd have to be a victim. Then what would she have?

* * *

Emily slides her phone back into her pocket, making her way back into the briefing room. Instantly, all eyes are on her. JJ is looking at her quizzically, her freshly waxed eyebrows shaped at her funny; Morgan, his eyebrows also expressively saying the words he is not; then there's Reid, sipping his coffee wholesomely, keeping quiet; and Rossi, Mr. Cool, with his feet up and his attitude, is now perceptively interested in her phone call; and lastly, Hotch, the one with the best poker face. "Is everything alright?" Hotch is the first to ask. With those words, all ears pipe up, and their caring eyes turn to curious ones.

She slides into her chair and the wheels squeak on the waxed floor. "Yeah, everything's just fine," she insists, forcing a beaming smile. "Nothing to be concerned about." She meets each pair of eyes with a hearty glance, insinuating that she is, indeed, okay after all. It takes the team a second or two to recover from the interruption, but soon there's chatter all about all over again. And there back to discussing another case, this one in Atlanta, where there's a man going on a raping spree, who recently resorted to murder on his last victim. JJ, with the flick of a remote, flashes images, too cruel for Emily to look long enough.

"Elizabeth Jennings, seventeen," JJ announces. Click. "Brutally beaten and raped. Ashley Torrence, eighteen," Click. "Also brutally beaten and raped. Only one day later," Click. "Was Jessica Tisbon found. She's twenty-nine."

Reid strokes his hairless chin with deep thought and concentration, keeping his eyes on the photo of a bloody Jessica, undressed, in a field of clean grass near a small pond. "The ages change," Reid points out. "He went from teenager to adult in two days."

"He's evolving," Morgan says pointedly. The pounding in Emily's head reappears; she's not sure if it's a migraine from her pregnancy, or if there's a bomb ticking away in a slot in her brain. Her head's closing in on her, the sides throbbing. Can they hear the throbbing? It sounds so loud to her. "He doesn't stick to one type. The first two victims were black and white. We've got dark hair, light hair, dark eyes, light eyes. He doesn't stick to any age or type of woman."

"It tells us it's not about the woman," Rossi interjects. Emily's throbbing is getting louder. Pounding away like a jackhammer constructing inside her brain. She wants so bad to massage it, or pinch it tight, but that would only cause more awkward staring contests. She collects her hands on her lap quietly, trying to focus on the way the glass window has an orange tint at this time of day, everyday. How pretty it looks. "It's about the crime. The power he receives during the act; the sexual pleasure, he drives on it."

_Yes, they do. They all do. All men do. _"Emily," Hotch says. She brings her head up, the light burning her eyes, making her migraine unbearable. "You're quiet. What do you think in the matter of this case?"

All eyes on her again. Make it stop. The pounding, the staring. She's still fighting it. Don't squeeze your temples, Emily, resist the urge. "I think, uh," she wipes off her pant-leg, though there's nothing visible there. She keeps swiping at nothing. "I think Rossi is right."

"Were you even listening over there?" Morgan laughs, bringing his coffee cup to his lips. "You were in dreamland I think, honey."

"Morgan, cut it out," Hotch says harshly, his words turning the room ice cold. Everyone sits perfectly still, tensing. "We're taking this case in Atlanta. Emily?"

She looks up, past the migraine, the throbbing, the blinding light. "Yes, sir?"

"See me in my office."


	2. Chapter One

**Author's note: **First chapter! I want to mention how much I greatly appreciate the fantastic responses I have received for the prologue for this story. I cannot believe there are so many people so interested in it. It means a lot, and really excites me to write this chapter and get it going for you guys. Your reviews mean SO much- I dedicate this to all of your well-appreciated encouraging comments of, "Can't wait for more." Thanks so much!

**Important: **In case you're confused, the first chapter was just the prologue. This is the first _real _chapter. Which means, I'm starting from the beginning. This chapter goes more into detail about how Emily's dealing. Hotch is hardly in this chapter. I wanted to incorporate him more, but I didn't see how it'd fit in too well. Don't worry, he will be brought in a lot.

One thing I'd like to bring to attention is something someone brought to MY attention in a review. They said that the description of this story, being as Hotch thinks it's a bad idea that she wants an abortion, made them wonder who the hell Hotch thinks he is. I have to agree. I am never good with descriptions, and I hate writing for them. I kind of threw that together in a hurry to post the story and get offline, and should have reconsidered it. I want to state that I don't intend on writing Hotch as a ballsy kind of guy who sticks his nose in places it does not belong. I am going to try my hardest to put this story together in a way where Hotch remains Hotch-like, and stays in boundaries. After all, a personal decision such as an abortion is Emily's decision ultimately.

Thanks for reading! I hope you like this just as much. XO.

* * *

She wakes up at 6:15 AM this morning. The digital red alarm clock on her desk blares the time in bright red text, exclaiming it, burning her eyes. She twists in the bundle of sheets entangling her legs and rubs her eyes with her fists. The long windows in her bedroom shine in shades of a hesitant gray hue, casting a dull shadow over her entire bedroom. Cloudiness envelopes the entire house. She rests on her elbows, digging them into her mattress, squinting at the window, trying to see behind the sheer white curtains. The sun is barely up, just slightly peeking out over the horizon. Slowly, the sky begins turning a gold color, clouds beginning to arrive. Time passes too urgently, and soon fifteen minutes has gone by absentmindedly. She stumbles out of bed, readjusts her thin cotton sweatpants and goes about her morning routine. Something feels off today. There's a strange ache in her body, a sick allover feeling. She could crawl into bed and sleep the rest of the day without cracking her eyes open for another dreary second. She catches herself in the mirror. Dark circles under her eyes, pale complexion, cold eyes. No matter how hard she scrubs her face, the sleepiness never leaves her body. It feels like her energy is being sucked from her body through a tube somehow connected to her. She pauses over the sink, closing her eyes, desperately wanting to go back to bed. She jolts up, an electric shock zipping through her; here it comes. Warmth rises up her throat, hurtles its way to her tongue and she contains it, it long enough to shove the toilet lid up and heave it into the bowel. The wet sounding of her voice croaking turns to dry heaves, and she stands there, knees shaking, hands sweating until she can successfully swallow without throwing up again. She has to brush her teeth again after that, and purposely avoids brushing her tongue too far back, wondering if perhaps that upset her gag reflex.

For the rest of her daily routine, she goes about it dully. Dragging her bare feet from room to room, carelessly tossing whatever on, flicking the mascara wand over her eyelashes lazily. She opens the refrigerator door, but knows well enough that she can't keep anything down. The smell of blueberry yogurt somehow seeps through the sealed packaging, and she inhales enough of it to send her stomach into a shock. First it sends cramps, giving her some time to throw the yogurt down and haul back into the bathroom. She kept the toilet lid up this time. She attempts to throw up again, but is running on an empty stomach; nothing comes up. For twenty straight minutes, it's nothing but on and off dry heaves. She lays by the toilet, exasperated, spent. She's sweating uncontrollably, her throat raw. The very thought of food makes her sick all over again. She can't smell anything sweet. She can't even think about eating. She can only recall being sick like this a few times in her life. Once over bad food poisoning, a couple of times over a stomach bug, and lastly, the memory of a fifteen year-old girl slumped by the bathroom toilet and the toilet paper rack, holding her stomach, cheeks red, eyes teary from vomiting so hard. She feels strangely attached to that girl; of course, she was her. She's still her.

The idea latches onto other parts of her thoughts, feeds it information. Panic sets in. She counts back on her fingers how long it's been since he raped her. Three weeks. Oh no. Oh no. No, no, no. She backs up against the wall, holds herself there. Forces herself to touch her stomach. Of course she feels nothing spectacular. It's too soon to feel a kick, or a rumble, or anything. She tries to think back. She's positive he hadn't used a condom. I mean, why would he? He intended on killing her, after all. If Hotch hadn't came in, she would have been dead, easily. So why bother with protection? Then again, she was so mentally out of it that he could have, and she wasn't paying well enough attention. As much as she would like to believe he slipped one on in her delirium, she finds it to be more like a fairytale. She won't even muster up the energy to get her hopes up on believing that.

She has to take charge, get a hold of herself. She walks to the kitchen, careful to stay by the sink just in case, and grabs the cordless phone from the wall. Calls Hotch. "Hello?" he sounds groggy. It's not that early for him, so she's surprised he sounds so tired. She would feel bad, but right about now she's got a million and one other things to be worried about.

"Sorry to wake you, Hotch," she says quietly, her voice sounding strained from puking. "But I can't come into work today. I'm very sick."

Fumbling turns to static, then the other end goes clear. "Oh yeah? Did you see a doctor?" he stifles a yawn, but it eventually finds it's way out; he sounds exhausted. He makes a groan as he stretches, and repositions the phone on his ear.

"I'm going to, yeah," she feels the urge to puke again. She needs to get off the phone, fast. "I should go call in now. Make the appointment. Tell everyone I'm fine, though. No reason to worry."

"Okay," he yawns again, this time not bothering to hide it. "Get better though, okay? And get rest. Lots of it."

"I'll try to, sir," she touches the soft metal of the sink. The coldness calms her fever, like sending ice through her entire body. An ice bath. Sounds so refreshing right now.

"Please do." he sounds like he's sitting up now, ready to get up officially. "Take care, Prentiss. Bye."

"Bye." she tosses the phone on the counter, hovering over the sink. Nothing comes up. False alarm. She takes two long breaths before calling the doctor. Ready or not, there's only one way to know.

* * *

"Emily, it's good to see you again," her gynecologist, Dr. Ben Fehr says smiling. He checks over his clipboard, then his smile turns into a frown. "Although you seem more antsy than your last visit. I haven't seen you since-" he pauses, flicks around pages clipped to the clipboard. "-since you came in three weeks ago. About the tear? How is that healing, by the way?"

She sits up straighter, her gown crunching in the back. Dr. Ben is referring to the checkup Emily had scheduled the day she got back home in Quantico. She reported slight discomfort and small bleeding down there, and wanted a thorough run-through. She also, discreetly, wanted to get checked for STDs. All tests for STDs came back negative, thankfully. However, he did say that she was torn down there, apparently due to friction during intercourse. Evidently, or so she led Dr. Ben to believe, her last sex partner went too hard on her and next time, would just have to go easier. Simple as that. She hadn't mentioned she was raped. "Everything is fine with that," she says honestly, placing her hands on her legs awkwardly. "The bleeding was only slight, and it stopped after a day or so. The soreness went away shortly after, as well." She hated that the soreness caused her to walk slightly funny. Or how sometimes when she wiped it felt like she was hitting a bruise. How hard had he thrust into her? She doesn't ever think about it. What's it matter now?

"That's good to hear." he gives her a sideways glance, then places the clipboard down. "What brings you in today? You're not scheduled for a gynecological physical for another month and a half." She shifts in her seat, trying not to act too paranoid. Doctors are pretty good at guessing things, and she doesn't want Dr. Ben to know about what happened. When he first saw the tear, he got this weird look on his face, paranoia, and he didn't know what to say. The first thing he said was, "I'm surprised you hadn't felt how hard he was going on you. I'm sure it must have been painful. You should have told him to slow it down," his eyes flickered; he was frowning. "Next time, tell him to be more careful." She promised him that she would tell her sex partner just that, with her most fake-sincere smile she could put on. Little did he know, she didn't even remember if it hurt. Maybe it did. She was too busy staring at the moon, wishing she'd hear something other than the wind carrying on outside. Maybe he was going too hard on her. All she recalls is laying there, in a pile of dirt and hay and grass and feeling dirty, like she needed to shower right then. Not because she was laying in a pile of dirt, hay and grass, but because of everything else that was around her.

"I'm thinking that I might be," she rubs her hands together. This morning they were clammy, now they're so dry. It sounds like pieces of paper sliding together when she rubs them. "Pregnant."

He sits in his chair, pulling on gloves, nodding as she talks. "When was the last time you had sex?" he asks her, readying his clipboard.

"Three weeks ago. I haven't had sex since that tear," she tugs at the end of the hospital gown, making it longer on her thighs. She hasn't had sex mostly because she doesn't have a boyfriend. But also because sex seems somehow wrong to her now. The thought of a man crawling on top of her, touching her with his hands, his fingers on her hair or anywhere else, makes her shudder. She wonders if that will ever go away. "I've been throwing up all morning and I just feel... different. Anyway, I wanted to get an accurate reading. I didn't want to just pee on some drugstore flimsy test."

Dr. Ben chuckles a little. "That's best that you came here," he writes something down, then adjusts his gloves. "But a drugstore test would have given you quicker results. We're going to take a blood test, alright? The results will take two or three days, so you think you can hold over until then?"

She nods, uncertain. "Yeah, I guess I don't have a choice. If I want to be sure."

Dr. Ben smiles. "I'll get someone in here to take your blood," he opens the door, says something to a nurse, then walks back inside. "Emily?"

She lifts her head, replaces her hands on her lap.

"Do you want to be pregnant? You don't have to answer that, it's just my own personal question. You just seem so..." he cocks his head, reads her face. Sulking. Eye circles visible. Clearly deprived of sleep. "Scared."

She nods slowly. "I am scared," she admits, behind a layer of exhaustion. "I can't be pregnant. Believe me."

He pauses, to say something. She thinks he knows. Knows that she had been raped. He opens his mouth, but decides against it. A nurse slides in, smiling. "Ready?" she asks her, unwrapping the needle. Dr. Ben slides out without a word. But she knows that he knows.

* * *

Two days has gone by. She had stopped at the grocery store a day ago, pausing at the feminine care aisle, staring down a purple box of a pregnancy test. Held it, read the instructions, put it down. She didn't want to know right then. She wanted time to prepare; go over her options. But it's 10 AM, and her phone finally rings. The loud ringing shrilly echoes through the entire BAU. Morgan swivels in his chair, his elbow propped on the armrest, his index finger lifted. "Whoa, that thing is _loud_," he chuckles, sliding his boots on the worn-out carpeted floor. "I think that's louder than my smoke detectors."

She gives Morgan a half-assed smirk, but hurries to answer it. The caller ID informs her that it's time. She clicks the Send button and places it to her ear, invisibly crossing her fingers for good luck. "Hello?"

"Hello, this is Dr. Brennen Ruth at Wellman's OB/GYN, I'm calling for Emily Prentiss with her blood test results. Is this her?" the girl's voice is super-sweet, the perfect voice to make phone calls and update patients on their appointments.

"Yes, this is she," she says quietly. Morgan's back is already turned, focusing on something else. Reid is doodling in his chair, out into his own reality, but she still feels like she's being held up, being watched.

"Okay, you were getting tested to see if you're pregnant, correct?" A panic sets in; irrationally, she wonders if the volume is turned up too high. If Morgan or Reid could hear her say the word _pregnant. _ Either way, they don't move or flinch, unfazed by it if they had heard it.

"Yes, that's correct," she says quietly, holding the phone super-close to her ear, using her other hand to shield the outside speaker. She won't allow any words to leave this small device. She can't let them know. You know, if she is in fact with child.

"Yes, well, your test results came in," the woman's voice gets perkier, but stays professional. "You are pregnant." The words sit in the air. The woman is polite enough to give her a moment, to let her process this. Perhaps Emily takes too long not saying anything. "Ma'am?"

"Yeah, thanks," she doesn't know what else to say. "Thanks for letting me know."

"Have a nice day, miss." and click. The friendly woman is gone. Emily clicks off on her cell, placing it back onto her lap. So that's it. She's pregnant with a rapist and murderer's spawn. How delightful. She looks down at her belly, hidden behind her black sweater. She refuses to touch it. Her stomach. There's a baby inside there. Undeveloped, unaware on his or her's creation. How he or she came about. What if he or she has his eyes? Those eyes. The same pair of eyes one of his victims, Ashley Torrence, says she has nightmares about. The coldness, the bitterness, the sheer violence captured only in his eyes. And his hands. Will the baby have his hands, too? The rough, dry, calloused hands. The hands he used to end lives and rip women of their innocence. The hands he used to touch Emily, as she trembled, frozen, not feeling a thing, because she couldn't. Because her brain wouldn't allow her to fathom it. But now she has this. And her brain isn't protecting her from this.

She holds resentment for the unborn child. The unknowing baby he created. She can't bond with it. It is not staying. She cannot carry it, or give birth to it to pass onto someone else. It has DNA running through it's blood that is horrific. Had anyone tried to convince her of this, she would have told them, "The baby will not be like him. This baby is not him. You have to understand that. It didn't ask to be created; especially not like that," she would have told the victim those exact words, with sincerity and compassion. She's been there; pregnant and scared. And before, she was ripped of something. Innocence then too. Even now. She escapes into the bathroom, leaving the wheels on her chair reeling. She's not going to get sick, but the air feels heavier out there. Pairs of eyes staring her down, although it's only in her head. She's so afraid someone will find out. It's another part of her post-traumatic stress disorder, that she won't confess to dealing with. She lays her palms on the sink, watching little drips of water slip from the tip of the faucet, to hit the porcelain sink and slide down the drain.

A woman's in the big stall in the far left. The loud sound of a baby crying - screaming - fills the air. Emily squeezes her eyes shut. The screaming gets louder. A woman unlatches the stall door, steps out, cradling a small newborn in a wool blue blanket. She gives Emily an apologetic smile, bouncing the baby gently. "Babies," she says, smiling. She looks down at the sleeping child. "But they're the best, aren't they?"

Emily glances down at the child. Small eyes, small fingers, small wrinkly hands. Wrinkly skin everywhere, actually. Naive, new to everything. Completely unfamiliar with death, with grief, with hurt, with pain. So innocent. She tries to force a smile, but cannot. Too much bitterness for her own child. Well, she can't say that. What's growing inside of her is not hers. It's something that should never have been created, point blank. The baby the woman is holding eventually quiets down to a soft whimper, which evaporates into silence. His nostrils flaring every time he inhales; the room is at peace. "It's safe to leave here now," the woman says, laughing slightly, shoving the diaper bag up to her shoulder. "Now that he's quiet."

Emily cracks a half-smile. That's the best she could do. That won't be her. Especially not for a child who was created out of terror and force.


	3. Chapter Two

**Author's Note: **I'm a bit rusty...

* * *

She was so close to going. She was so close to forgetting about this _thing_ for a little while. Forget about sulking, forget about the unborn baby growing fervently inside of her bitter womb. She could be dealing with a serial rapist and killer on her hands, instead of washing off the stains another man left behind, on her dirty, judgmental hands. She escapes the bathroom shortly after being mentally consumed with visuals of her caring for her own offspring, when she vomits right outside the door. The woman with the baby passes by, a smug smile curving on her cheap lipstick lips. "Think that's bad?" the woman comments, as Emily watches in horror of her assorted color vomit dyeing the gray carpet. The woman pats her baby's back, wrapped safely in her arms. "Imagine what morning sickness is like. Ha!" And off she goes, catering to her child, her family. The pool of vomit lays at her feet accusingly, and she stares at it, like a creature is supposed to form out of it somehow. Hotch rushes over to her, his tie swinging left and right vigorously. She can't look up into his eyes; she's embarrassed. Everyone in the BAU crowds around, but not directly around _her_, but the scene itself. As disgusting as it is. Emily's surprised so many people can handle the sight of vomit so easily, without getting queasy themselves. Never again will she eat at Taco Bell.

"Emily," Hotch almost sounds angry, but above it is a thick layer of concern. He breathes out of his nose, holding his briefcase out wide, like the puke is going to rise and touch it. He's careful not to step up any closer. Emily can feel eyes - pointed, sharp eyes - watching her, waiting for her next move, but her black hair is swung low in front of her face, disguising her action. Soon her puke resembles guacamole dip to her. Another thing she won't ever touch again. "I knew you were acting strange. You're sick, aren't you? You've been sick. The other day... I should have seen this." He tip-toes over the puddle, extending his arm like he's going to put it around her, but instead keeps holding out his briefcase. He leans in close to her, but not too close.

"You cannot come on this case with us, if you're like that," he whispers to her. "How many times have you thrown up today?"

She finally looks up, tries to pry her dark hair away from her sticky mouth. She feels sick even imagining how gross she looks right now. Eyes linger on the mess at her feet, but no one says a word. It seems like only Hotch is acknowledging that there's a creator of the mess; not just a mess in total. "I've thrown up a couple of times, yeah," she whispers back, careful not to get too close to him. The stale taste in her mouth is overwhelming. "I'm sick, that's it. I guess I can't go." She wants nothing more than to occupy her mind, but her vomiting has been consistent, and she doubts it's going to stop for her to help others. Her resentment towards the baby grows harsher, thicker, like a ball tightening in her chest. She wants it gone - now.

She steps over the puke, trying to act calm, not feverish at all. "You guys go ahead," she says, louder this time, for the whole team to hear, now that they're gathered around the BAU entrance door, ready to fly off on the jet. "Call me if you need assistance. I'll be, uh, at home, getting over this bug, I guess." She tries to smile, but it comes out flat, careless. She gives a halfhearted wave and trails her way out of there, head up, wondering just how long it'll take someone to clean up _that _ big of a stain.

* * *

Her apartment is too quiet. This is unlike everything she's known. It's a work day, a day with a case she could be tackling, but instead she's in her apartment, slumped on the couch in a silk robe and furry slippers, her pajama bottoms stopping at her ankles. She's digging a large spoon into a half-empty ice cream container. The spoon keeps hitting the side of the container, making a thumping noise. The way she sees it is, she's going to be fat either way. And she's still avoiding it. Time, the baby, everything. She decides she's not really hungry anyway, and slides it on the coffee table.

Soon the ice cream on the spoon begins to melt. It forms puddles under the spoon, on the coffee table, turning creamy and thick right away, like it's already drying there. She looks down; at her small stomach, at her familiar breasts. It finally occurs to her that there's a fetus in there; that there will be milk filling her breasts. She's going to gain weight, oh yes, and her breasts will enlarge. Everyone will know. Everyone will wonder who the father is. She takes in a breath, lifts her hand, and lays it on her stomach. No reaction. She doesn't know what she's always expecting when she finally puts it there, but either way, nothing ever happens. She feels her belly button; imagines tracing over an umbilical cord. Pictures the woman in the bathroom, with the crying baby. How happy she looked. Well, clearly, she conceived that child willingly. Or, at least, _tolerated _the father.

She knows what she has to do. The most plausible thing to do is, get rid of it. Don't think twice. Don't reconsider. Just pick up the phone, schedule an appointment, and rid herself of all of that. No baby, then there's no explanations in order. She sneaks a look at the clock, but realizes it's too late to call to make an appointment. Tomorrow, then. She removes her hand, feeling reluctant to ever touch there again, at least not until the baby is gone. She tries not to think of the innocence it holds, the helplessness. How it can't know any better. Guilt grows thick on her, and she can't think about it. She can't keep it; so why is she thinking about how wrong it is _not _ to? She's afraid she'll talk herself out of it. She stands up, brushes off her old cotton pajamas, her loose silk robe. She's going to get dressed. She's going to go out. She's not going to let this control her life.

* * *

This dress is too tight on her. She thinks she looks ridiculous in this low-cut halter black dress and strappy, wobbly shoes, but her idea was to throw on anything inappropriate for work and kind of trashy. Therefore, this popped out in front of her eyes. She walks around with a new wave of self-consciousness since she found out she's expecting. Like already a bump is visible; protruding from the tightness of the dress, and everyone is going to be staring. She clunks her way inside the bar, the smell of alcohol like poison when she breathes in. The air is polluted with cigar smoke and bitter tobacco; it's heavy and raw. She fans the air, coughs a little and bobs around the crowded stools. The room is dimly lit, bulbs beginning to fade away, with people too lazy to replace them. Every guy that sends a look her way, she reacts with a look down at her polished toenails. Their gestures, though flattering, makes her feel uncomfortable. Before all of this, she would have flirted because she could. She's single, she's attractive, and she's free tonight. But now, men seem different to her. They walk with a glow around them; hazy, scary, threatening. It's funny how her opinion of them changed so drastically when it's _her_ whose the victim. After all the death, violence and horror she's seen men do throughout her years at the BAU and studying criminology, you'd think she'd seen it all. And she has. But she's never had to feel it before.

She spots one single empty stool. Next to a wall. And next to a girl in a green tank top and a mini skirt. Perfect. A woman. She slides into the stool, inhales a wiff of the woman's raspberry scented long hair. It takes her second to notice, but once she catches a glimpse of her face front-on, she realizes it's exactly who she thinks it is. "Hey, Tara," she nudges her arm. Tara looks her way, her green eyes looking silvery in this lighting. Tara Weed is a victim, like Emily. One that survived. She was raped, as well. Not by the same man of course, but in a past case, in a town about fifty miles from here. What's she doing here? The bar Emily drove to is only about thirty minutes away from where she lives.

"Hey, you!" Tara smiles appreciatively, her eyes gleaming brightly. For a second Emily guesses she's going to have to re-introduce herself, but Tara pulls her in for a delicate squeeze. "Emily, right? The, uh..."

"BAU?" Emily fills in for her, hugging her back. Tara is bonier now than Emily recalls, thinner, like she's lost weight. Emily could see that. Dealing with the changes rape puts you through can make you lose your appetite. Tara pulls away, nodding.

"Yeah, that's it," she plays with the thin straw poking out of the bright pink swamp in her cup. "How is everyone? I hope everyone's good. You guys saved me, you know. I owe you so much, I've wanted to visit...I was actually going to, since I'm in town. Just to say thanks, but it seems so little, you know?"

Emily smiles genuinely at her. Tara is a cute kind of pretty, with a small button nose, high cheeks that poke out when she smiles, unmistakeably dimples. She's petite and short, which makes her look younger than she is. She's actually twenty-seven.

"You don't owe us a thanks," Emily insists, combing through her hair loosely with her fingers. Emily strangely feels something in-touch with this woman. She understands. Even if she doesn't know it. Or maybe she does. Can she tell? "It's just our job. We do it all the time." She can't decide if that was the wrong choice of words to use. Like Tara's situation was less important because it's common. That isn't what she meant.

Tara doesn't seem fazed, though. Instead, she beams at her; happy, content. She swirls the straw around her bubbly drink, then takes a short sip. "But still," she decides, swallowing, then dabbing the corners of her mouth with a cloth napkin. "You guys don't have to do that. You just do. I'm not sure how you handle it, but you do somehow, and that's miraculous."

_You know what I think is miraculous? You being here tonight, Tara, totally fine and happy. You look so pretty. You look so pleased with yourself. How did you do it? _ The bartender catches Emily's eye, with annoyance screened on his face, expecting her to want to order a drink. Emily feels obligated to, so she orders a water. She can feel the heaviness of both Tara and the bartender's eyes linger on her with shock, but neither one says anything. Emily turns back to Tara. "So, how are you? Considering what happened..." She knows it's blunt to ask, but she just has to.

Tara looks down, shrugs one shoulder and collects her hair in one hand, then lets it fall to the side. "I'm doing okay, actually," she looks sincere about it. Emily wonders if her admiration for her strength is written on her face. "That man was a coward and a horrible person, but I'm not going to let him rip me of my life. You guys risked yours to save mine, and wasting my life feeling sorry for myself and hating men is only giving him something. He deserves nothing. So, I'm living my life, you know? Taking it one day at a time."

Emily nods slowly, processing this. Makes sense. Sounds easy. Live life, one day at a time, rewarding him. It all seems so easy planned out. But how can she move past this? Tara wasn't pregnant, she doesn't think. Tara didn't have another life getting rewarded or losing something. "But, I mean," Emily shifts in her seat, brushes off the hem of her dress, trying to sound casual and not deeply interested; but behind her hair, her ears perk up. "Don't you see men differently now?"

Tara considers this, bites on the tip of her straw. "Yeah, at first I did." She tells her, looking her way every so often, then back at the wall behind the bar; at the Elvis poster that's framed with a crystal picture frame; at the guitar neon clock. "I hated men, actually." She laughs at first, then quickly recollects herself. "I mean, I didn't go gay or anything, I'm not saying that."

"I understand what you meant," Emily informs her, smiling delicately. She understands more than Tara knows. Tara smiles back.

"I just couldn't date for so long. I couldn't stand being alone with a man. What he did to me, it just really screwed me up mentally and romantically. He ripped me of something in every aspect of my life. I just couldn't stand letting a man even touch my arm or my shoulder, let alone ever hopping into bed with one."

Emily sips her water; it goes cool down her throat. It feels so nice in this hot and uncomfortable bar. "So how did you get here?" she asks, her tone serious and hanging on her every word. "Not here in particular, I mean, like this. You look fantastic."

"I started going on dates, forcing myself out there," she laughs, pushes her drink aside like suddenly it's unappealing. "I came here every night. At first with some friends, then gradually I came by myself. Just talking to guys, getting to know some. Some were jerks, yeah, but some were really good guys. I'm not dating anyone, but I still go out. I had to learn to trust again."

But how? How can you trust that man not to hurt you? How do you go back after experiencing what they did? Why can't Emily do that?

"Trust me, Emily," Tara meets her eyes. "You'll move past this." Emily looks down, at Tara's small hand on hers.

"What? I never-"

"You didn't have to say it," Tara nods sympathetically, keeping her voice low and calm. Soothing and soft. "I'm no profiler, but you have the same face that I did. It's part of the healing process. Wanting to know how other women moved past it, wanting to find a way out. You'll find your own way out."

Emily nods. For a second, she wants to mention the baby. She wants someone to tell her what to do. Someone fix this. She can't do all on her own.

"So, what do you suggest I do?" Emily asks, after a long, dragged-out pause. She can't believe, in this moment, she's reaching for help. Emily isn't this woman. Not dependent, not reaching for hands to pick her up. She feels very small right now. She wants her shell to close up around her, protect her.

Tara looks surprised that Emily's opening up, too. She pauses. "I can't tell you how to heal," Tara says honestly, looking sad. "You have to do it yourself. But surrounding yourself with great, supportive people is a must. People you _know _ you trust."

She nods. She can do that. That's pretty simple.

"And learn to trust men again somehow. I dated around, I even slept with a few of them, until it didn't feel so dirty," Tara shrugs, sips her drink again. "It might not have been the best way, but it helped me."

Emily nods. Then leans forward fast, and hugs Tara. Tara gives in with ease. Even hugging someone this close makes Emily tense, but she's getting the hang of it. She found comfort in Tara tonight. And she knows how to fix this.

She's going to find herself a date. Someone she can learn to trust. And she's going to have to let go.

* * *

Coffee. Need coffee. And bacon. Though the apartment smells like rich cologne and incense, Emily wakes up with the strongest burning in her stomach that desires bacon and coffee. Rich but creamy coffee, burning her tongue, going like a roller coaster down her throat. She tries to twist in the entanglement of the sheets, but they're twisted in so many different directions it's hard to find what area it's tugging on. She looks behind her, sees the man she followed home last night laying beside her. His back muscles are strong and appear as two large dimples in his shoulder blades, his soft tanned skin. His dark hair is toyed with, and his face is facing the opposite direction of Emily. She covers her face, disguises her groaning. Tara was wrong. So wrong. She doesn't feel less disgusting; she feels worse. She didn't feel good last night, either. She didn't enjoy it. When he kissed her, she tensed. When he undressed her, she wanted to cry. When he fell on top of her, she fought back tears. When he made love to her, she squeezed her eyes shut, found herself reeling in the back of her mind for an escape, like she'd done that night. Stars and the moon lifting up and away on the ceiling of his bedroom, shining for her. The moon throbbing with strobe lights; the stars with crystals in them that shine like diamonds. She imagined painting her thoughts on a canvas, but decided they wouldn't look nearly as beautiful as she pictured them to look.

She stayed inside her head through the whole experience. When he finally climbed off of her, relieved, panting, she woke from her daydream. She was naked, pregnant, damp from the sweat that pooled off of him and disgusted. She couldn't even fake a smile when he whispered in her ear how great it was. He had to of known. He propped up on his elbow, looked at her. "You don't do this often, huh?" he asked, almost concerned. She refused to look at him. "You don't go to bars and sleep with random guys." She expected him to say something comforting, make her trust him. Instead he sighed, turned over and fell asleep. Like her feelings didn't matter. Typical man.

She wanted to cry again, seeing her dress torn off on the chair in the corner. Her heels haphazardly scattered about the place. Her purse. His body on top of hers. His heavy breathing, the sound of his voice as he got closer and closer to his release. She wanted to throw up last night. She's surprised she didn't. But now she has to. She heaves herself out from under the sheets, races to the toilet naked and makes it just in time. Her stomach churns and twists until she can't take anymore. She stops.

The sound of pattering feet come from behind her. "Did you just-" he stops, eyes the situation, then scratches the back of his head. He had slipped on his boxers, at least. "Oh." He looks at her, hunched over the toilet, crouching, naked. She feels so exposed. Disgusting. She doesn't attempt to cover herself, mostly because it's impossible. He cocks his head. "That's gross."

She wants to bury her head in the toilet and drown herself. "Yeah," she says, her voice hoarse. "I should get going." She crosses her arms across her bare chest, walking to the bedroom, gathering her clothes. He closes the door in the bathroom. The toilet flushes. The sound of water hitting the toilet water comes through to the bathroom; he's peeing. It doesn't take her long to piece together that her car is still at the bar.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit." She curses, fumbling through her purse for her phone.

Nameless walks out of the bathroom, leans against the wall. "Lose something?" he asks, a yawn following after.

She looks up, rolls her eyes. "Not really," she says, annoyed. "Except I left my car at the bar last night."

"I could drive-"

"No thanks." She says quickly, retrieving her phone, dialing. The thought of spending a car ride with him to her place seems like a horrible, undeserving punishment. She wants away from him - fast. Now. She calls the BAU. Someone there can come pick her up. The team is off on the case, but maybe someone -

"Hello?" Hotch answers.

"Hotch?" she screeches, stunned. "What are you doing at the BAU? Aren't you guys on that case?"

"No," Hotch sighs. "I didn't go. Jack was sick last night - nothing too major - and I had to see the doctor about it. The team insisted they could go without me. I was going to fly in this morning, but they said that it'd be a waste of time. Apparently they're close to nailing this guy."

Emily attempts to brush through her hair; she knows she looks horrible. Her makeup is still on from last night, but it's dewy and fading away. Her hair is a tangled heap of a mess, and her dress is way too slutty for daytime. Not to mention, she's wearing her emotions splattered on her face. But Hotch is her only available ride right now. And he's already seen her vomit. "Oh."

"Why did you call here if you thought we were gone?" Hotch asks. He sounds like he's tapping a pen on his desk.

"I was looking for a ride, actually," she clears her throat. Tries to sound alright. Nameless is still standing there, now with jeans on but no shirt, watching her. He smiles a little when she looks up. Not a cocky smile, but a sympathetic one. He actually looks like he feels bad. Emily forces a halfhearted smile back. Nameless was drunk last night; she hadn't drank a sip. Nameless was just horny, Emily understood that. Now he's sober, and feels bad. That's good. But she still doesn't want to drive with him. God no. Nameless eventually stops watching her; walks to the kitchen, prepares coffee.

"Where are you?" Hotch stops tapping the pen. "Aren't you sick? Did you see a doctor?"

_God, Hotch,_ she thinks. "No, I didn't see a doctor. I'm fine. I'm just sick," she keeps her voice low, even though it was obvious to Nameless that she is very, very sick. "I'm at a, uh, a place. Can you come get me?"

Hotch pauses. "Yeah, okay. Where are you?"

She stops. Tries to think. Tries to remember the address when she got out of his car and walked up here. She cups her hand over the phone and looks at Nameless. "Where are we?" she asks.

Nameless smiles a little, fills the coffee pot. "We're at Oakview Apartments. Redden Street."

"Oakview Apartments-"

"Redden Street. I heard." Hotch says, emotionless. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"Thanks, Hotch."

"Yeah." He hangs up.

* * *

Emily waits outside. The air feels cooler right now, freezing her legs, sending chills from her ankles to her thighs. Every now and then, a big gust of wind swoops up her dress, causing her entire upper half to freeze, too. Soon the apartment door squeals open, and Nameless - now fully-clothed - walks down the steps, over to Emily. He hands her a hooded sweater. She declines it with a thankful smile and a shake of her head. She instead hugs her arms.

"Look, about last night," Nameless begins, fidgeting with his fingertips. Nameless is attractive, in a subtle way. He's got dark brown sideburns, dark brown hair with the tips jutting up and out, and toned muscles in odd places. He dresses very casually, even at the bar last night when most people's attempts at getting laid causes them to get dressed up. His eyes are a bland hazel and his nose is kind of big, but his smile is aggravatingly innocent. It's what's most appealing, for sure.

"Don't apologize," Emily says, cutting him off, watching the parking lot in expectation of seeing Hotch's vehicle roll through to save her. "It was my fault, too."

Hotch pulls up, finally. She clatters her high heeled way to the car, but Hotch stops, stops the engine and walks out. He walks to the other side of the car. Spots Emily. Though his posture stays strong and his walk stays forceful, his eyes follow every inch of her image, following with confused eyebrow raises and concerned gestures with his jaw. He crosses his arms in his tight suit, screaming authority and protection, watching her carefully.

Nameless backs away a little. "Guess he's your ride," Nameless doesn't say it, but he's very intimidated by Hotch's appearance.

Emily nods at Nameless, forcing a bleak smile. "Yes, that he is."

Hotch stays unmoved. Firm, bordered up like always, warding people off. Nameless catches a smile out of Emily, though it's brief, and drags his feet back up to the apartment. For a second she forgets Hotch is watching her. Watching her accusingly. "Are you alright?" he finally asks. "I mean, everything looks alright, but you're alright?"

"Yes," she lies. "I'm alright." Although she's freezing. And morning sickness is kicking in already, even after she emptied all of her stomach's contents into Nameless' toilet bowl.

"Aren't you worried about getting him sick?" Hotch asks, with a hint of sharpness in his tone, unveiled beneath something softer. Strong concern. But beneath the surface, he's angry.

"What?" she asks, startled.

"You're really sick," he explains, calmer now. "You shouldn't be seeing anyone. You should be home."

"I'm alright now," she lies again. She feels even dirtier the more she lies. But if Hotch keeps pressing this with as much force as he is right now, she might just crack. "Stop worrying so much. Can we just go? I'm freezing."

"You look like you're freezing," he responds coldly, making his way to the other side of the car. His loafers tap on the concrete. "Maybe you should find more material."

Ice breaks in her bones. She's coming undone. She can't take any more negative thoughts about herself. Yes, she looks slutty. Yes, she's done something horribly dirty. Of course Hotch knows what happened last night. Look at her. You don't just meet a friend in a dress like that. You don't just sleep over at some guy's house, and exchange awkward glances before you leave. Even if you're not a profiler, the obviousness of this situation is thick in the air. But she's about to break. She wants to go home, shower until her skin is wrinkly and her body is too weak; the water's too cold; and get dressed into something that's the farthest thing from sexy. She wants to look unappealing, unattractive and sink low into her bed, and cry until her throat aches and she's vomiting again. It seems never-ending. Tara might have found a way out. Emily just can't seem to.

"You know what, Hotch?" her voice practically echoes through the parking lot. "You just go right ahead. I already look like a hooker, why don't I just hitchhike my way home? Fine by me." Though she has zero intentions of actually doing so, she wobbles her way towards the end of the parking space. To the turn that takes you to the main road, where she'll stupidly stick her thumb in the air, just to stiff Hotch. Immature, yes, but it seems a hell of a lot better than sitting in a car next to a man who's looking down on her.

"What are you doing?" he leaves the driver's door open, swinging with the wind, following her around the parking lot. Finally, he reaches her arm. "Emily. You're acting ridiculous. I came here to get you, now let's just go."

"You think I'm trash, right?" she screams. It was either that or begin crying, and somehow screaming bitterly seems to express more pride than sobbing.

Hotch's face pales. "No," he shakes his head very slowly. "I don't think that at all."

"Well I am, right? I'm sick, I'm disgusting, I smell like puke, I look like crap and I just had a one-night stand with a guy who can't seem to tell when someone just wants to go home. God, I just want to go home." Don't cry. Don't cry. She almost puts her hand on her stomach, to cool it down, since all of her anger somehow feels directed to that area. But she avoids it. Right now, her stomach is her worst enemy. Soon they'll be friends again.

Hotch pauses, breathes out through his nose. He watches the trees, listens to the wind, then finally, steps his feet forward. "Then let's take you home," he pulls her arms uncrossed and leads her to the car, surprisingly without her resistance. He opens her door for her, allows her to take her time fumbling inside and then finally, slowly glides them out of the apartment complex.

She relaxes her head against the window, the sound of everything whooshing past them making the lump in her throat decrease. Hotch doesn't speak. But he feels more gentler now, less judgmental than before. She has no energy to care what Hotch thinks of her right now. Despite what he says, she thinks she has him read. He thinks she's a big mess, she's concluded. She doesn't feel bitterness for him thinking that. If anyone would know what she's really like, it's the person having to see it twenty-four seven.


	4. Chapter Three

**Author's note: **Whew. Lots of typing, lots of ignoring people to finish this chapter for you guys. I hope it is well worth it :-)

* * *

If she thought last night was awkward and uncomfortable, the ride with Hotch feels even worse. She feels like every move is being watched carefully; what will he think of her? She assumes he cannot possibly find her any more disgusting. She leans forward, closer to the vent; the cool air pouring out vigorously, cooling her palms and cheeks. Her face feels hot and burning, feeling sticky. She looks Hotch's way. The first time since they left Nameless' apartment. Hotch is solemn; his face straight, expressionless, the wheel in one hand. Occasionally his dark eyes, which are equally as unreadable, flicker across the streetlights or something ahead of them on the corners of the streets. But he doesn't look her way. He's set on a mission: take her home, walk her to the door, make sure she gets inside safely, then pull away as nonchalantly as he'd done back there. Emily catches herself staring longer than she initially wanted to. Hotch confuses her. Sometimes he's so hard to understand. How does he not break down? He piles so much on his plate, but never, ever does it overfill. She feels her eyes narrowing on him, like lens focusing on him, everything around him blurring. Like it's possible to stare hard enough, that words will form. Words that explain in great detail how Hotch keeps everything together.

Eventually her staring becomes more than obvious, and he turns her way. She can feel herself wanting to flinch; dart her eyes back to the vent and the cool air. But she doesn't. Her eyes remain struck on him like a strobe light, meeting his eyes now. Their dark eyes reach a staring contest somehow, both of them refusing to look away. This only lasts seconds, but it feels like minutes on end. Hotch eyes the road again, silent all the while. Emily shifts in her seat, adjusting the hem of her dress, fixating her eyes on that instead. "Your air works good in here," she comments, putting her hand in front of the vent again. Cool air bursts out on her warm palm.

Hotch stays quiet; hard as a rock. The car steers to the left and swivels into an empty parking space, that resides right outside a tall, brown building. Emily looks at the building, very confused. A big wooden cross on the front of the building tells her just where they are. She tries to fight it, but angrily, she rolls her eyes to her right. "You're taking me to church now?" she says hastily, her words bitter and harsh. Hotch, again, doesn't respond. "Come on, Hotch. This is ridiculous."

The car leans forward slightly before it goes to a complete stop, placed perfectly in a parking space. He turns the keys and the engine shuts up. The car goes completely quiet; the silence deafening. Emily looks his way, feeling tight and itchy in her uncomfortable dress. She places her hands on her lap; not once making contact with her stomach.

"I'm not taking you to church," he looks straight ahead, at the building. Emily looks at it too, then brings her eyes back to him, knowingly. "Okay, well, technically I have. But we're not going inside. We're going to talk."

She stretches her legs out, combs her hands through her messy hair. The last thing she feels like doing is talking. She doesn't even think she's capable right now, anyway. Literally _not_capable. Words just won't come out, unless they're in a slur of hurtful comments about herself. "I'm fine, I told you-"

"You're obviously not, and everyone can see that. You usually have it so together," Hotch releases a sigh, that sounds sad and then shakes his head lightly, at the grass ahead of them. "I want to help you, but how can I do that if you just shut down?"

She holds her forehead. The words are there. Somewhere in her mind, they're there. Just waiting to be released. Like a toy, if she just wound it up, it'd start going. But she can't seem to get them out. This is harder than he understands. "I'm not shutting down," she replies, straightening her dress, forcing it farther down her thighs. She feels very exposed right now. She imagines the guy last night looking at her body, staring at her with lust and desire. How phony she'd felt; he thought she felt the same way. She let him touch her. Why did she let him? Thinking about it, she shakes her head hard, wanting to will it all away. The feeling of his fingers on her, his strong, rough hands. His lips on her skin. She shuts her eyes. It's too close to what _he'd_ done to her that night. It's become impossible to tell the difference between making love and rape.

"Emily," Hotch readjusts in his seat, then pulls his buckle off. "Emily."

She lifts her face. Hotch can see it. Her eyes drooping, sad. Invisible but telltale signs that she's in worst condition than he thought. "You need to talk about it," he coaches softly. He looked like he was going to reach forward and touch her, but she inched away naturally. He pulls his hand back, deciding not to. She doesn't want anyone to touch her. Not for a long time. "You need to get it out."

What is she afraid of, exactly? Of them seeing her like she sees herself. Telling them would be exposing her wounds. It's irrational, she knows that. Insane. They wouldn't feel that way, she knows that. But she can't get it out anyway, even with that thought planted firmly in her head.

"Emily," he tries again. Shifting forward, becoming desperate. "You're not going to be yourself again until you let it out. You know that. Just talk to me. Or not. Talk to someone."

She can feel it. Right there. Bubbling up inside; it's coming. She squeezes her eyes shut. She's going to say it. She's going to get it all out, even though she doesn't want to. She swallows hard, trying to force the words back deep inside of her. But they're there. They're ready. "I'm pregnant," she blurts out. She keeps her eyes closed. His expression before, was cold and dark and distant, careless even. That was hard to look at. How frustrated he'd become with her. But his expression right now, must be even worse.

She doesn't feel him reach out to her. He doesn't say anything. She knows he's waiting for her to continue, but she doesn't. "Okay," he eventually says. "That explains the sickness."

Just like that. She tells him that big announcement with such fear, and he acts like it's nothing at all. She finally opens her eyes. He doesn't look disgusted, or even surprised. He nods very slowly, with a keen understanding. "Okay. Okay. So, you're pregnant. That's what's going on?" he focuses his eyes on her. She looks away, afraid of what will tumble out next. Afraid of her own words. Her own admissions. "That's what has you so rattled up?"

No. No, it's not just that. She can't look at him. He can tell. It's worse. Now he reaches forward. She flinches again, trying to back away, but he reaches her small wrist; his big, firm hand wrapping around it's small width. He grasps it, squeezes it. His eyes are intent on her, bold and unafraid. "Emily." Her name sounds faraway. It's her name, yes, but she doesn't know how to respond to it.

"I'm getting rid of it." She says, all too calmly. She won't look at him. The vent is all she sees. The cool air meeting her arms. "The baby. I'm going to have an abortion, and that's what's been bothering me."

Hotch slowly loosens his hand from her wrist. Lets go entirely. Pulls away. "Okay," he says again.

"Will you quit saying that?" she snaps, her voice cracking. She cradles her forehead. The pounding becoming incessant and impossible.

"Emily, I don't think I understand," he says slowly. She finally turns his way, her face harsh and offended.

"How do you not understand? I'm not keeping it."

"I'm not asking you to," he rests his arm on the wheel, getting more comfortable, like a therapist in a session with a patient. She's crumbling in his car, and he looks so casual. He's doing alright with all of this. He's not bolting, or judging. She can't decide if this makes her more at ease or more afraid. "But if this is tearing you up this badly, maybe you should reconsider -"

"No." She says flatly.

"Okay, I'm not sayi-"

"No." She repeats, more firmly. Like that is it. Mind is already made up. Finished. Like to her, the baby is already dead.

He stays quiet, the point through to him. He starts the car. The engine revs up, coming to life. The car shakes a little, and fumes sputter out, coating thick clouds into the air. "Is there anything else?" he says, his fingers still on the keys. "Before I take you home. Is there anything else you'd like to tell me?"

"No," she says coldly, her forehead pressed against the glass window. She's picking at something on the leather seat. A sticker that got misplaced there somehow, maybe. Hotch stays still, watching her. He wants to help, but he knows right now that's impossible. He pulls out of the parking lot. She watches the church become harder to see in the rear-view mirror, putting distance between the church and her secrets. The cross eventually fades as well, which at one point, was the focal point of the entire building. Driving away from there, feels a lot like her getting rid of the baby. If she just keeps moving, her mind motionless through it all, it will eventually fade, too. All of this.

* * *

She feels at least a little more comfortable now, physically. She showered, got the stench of Nameless' cologne off of her. She eased herself into bedtime clothes. That seems to be her nightly routine now. Go to work. Throw up a few times throughout the day. Get home. Shower. Throw on the un-sexiest, most unappealing outfit you can find stashed somewhere. Tonight she decided on Happy Bunny pajama bottoms and a loose-fitting gray tank top. The tank top swims around her everywhere but her breasts. She imagines they've gotten bigger, but somehow it feels too soon. It must be in her head.

She's waiting for that phone call. The one from Garcia, or JJ. A frantic, nervous wreck, laced with compassion. But the phone never rings. It stays far away from her, clinging to the wall. She's polished off her second bowel of chocolate mint ice cream. The spoon is dripping on the coffee table, leaving thick, brown circles. A part of her, surprisingly, wishes someone would call. Maybe she finally has the need to talk about it. Now that the biggest secret of all is out. A part of her wishes she would've hung on longer to that moment in the car, where Hotch was open, waiting to listen. He was willing. He wouldn't be willing now.

She stands up, attempts to sweep off the chocolate drips on her pants. They are already melted into the fabric. She gives up; walks to the kitchen, bored and useless. She has isolated herself since she'd been raped. Even more so when she found out she's pregnant. Her friends haven't called her to go out anymore. After receiving several nos in a row, they just gave up. Now she's isolated herself so much, she's entirely alone.

Well, not entirely.

She looks down at her stomach, hidden behind the loose fabric of her long-lost tank top, she found hidden somewhere behind an old pair of Dr. Martens boots. It's invisible; the baby and her stomach, behind the concealment of her shirt. But it's there. She raises her hand, about to place her hand there. Like she's done so many times before. Half-expecting to feel something miraculous; a kick, a shift, maybe just an overwhelming warmth. Something that will convince her to change her mind. She counts to three. She puts her hand there. She has put so much into wanting to feel something spectacular and moving, that she's heavily disappointed when nothing occurs.

Nothing warmer than her body heat radiating into her hand. Nothing shifting or kicking or acknowledging her touch. It's just nothing at all. She imagines having no motherly instinct whatsoever. No love for her unborn child. She pulls her hand away, slowly. It's nothing more than a stomach. Nothing more than a mistake.

The phone rings, from the living room wall. It startles her, pulls her out of this moment. She heads in there, without thinking, and picks it up. Mostly because she wanted to stop feeling so horrible; distract herself from her own cruelty. "Hello?" she answers.

"Hey, Emily," it's Hotch. She sighs, leaning against the wall next to the receiver. She was partially relieved he called; I mean, rightfully, shouldn't he? But partially concerned. She'd felt so ready before; waiting for this moment, to be pulled in a safe position, where her secrets could be told and kept, free of judgment. But now that he's here - his voice, calm and understanding - she's scared all over again. "I'm sorry to call sort of late," she sneaks a look at the clock. Six-thirty. Not so late. Not to her, anyway. She was just getting started with a TV marathon for a couple of more hours. But when you have a kid, I guess six-thirty seems relatively late. "Are you busy?"

"No," she shakes out her hair, and the scent of her shampoo fills the room. It smells like a calming mixture of pineapple and coconut. Soft, airy and gentle. Just what she needs to drown in. He waits.

She says nothing else, so he says, "Well, Jack and I, we were about to go out and get some pizza. Father and son time," he smiles. Looks down at Jack's beaming, eager face. You couldn't tell who's more excited about the idea. Too bad Emily couldn't see this through the phone. But his voice, warm, soft and inviting; she's only seen it that positive around Jack. His loving fatherly emotions somehow find their way through the phone, and Emily could just see it. The excitement of their father and son time. She smiles for him.

"That sounds like fun," she says, trying to mask the sadness in her own voice. Such a far cry from Hotch's. She's about to ask why he called her to tell her this, but waits until the moment gets a little more awkward. Right now, it seems like such a happy time for Hotch, and to bring him down seems almost criminal.

"Right, yeah, it will be," he looks down at Jack again, who is sliding on his jacket, ready to go. Hotch leans down, adjusts the collar, the phone clipped on his shoulder. "But I was thinking. Since we're going out and all, maybe you'd like to come with us. You should probably eat something."

She looks at the half-empty chocolate ice cream container, melting on the coffee table. It's started dripping down the sides of it, meeting the other pools of spilled chocolate on the table. She frowns at it. If Hotch knew any better, he'd see that she's been eating plenty. Her body continuously switching from nonstop vomiting to extreme cravings and a bottomless pit. She doesn't tell him this, though. "Hotch, I'm not sure greasy pizza is going to help my stomach any," she says, with a short laugh. Already declining his offer, before even considering it. Isolating herself even more. It's become so easy now, it's routine and natural. Doesn't even think twice about it. Until she feels the weight of Hotch's tone, somehow changing; turning quieter, almost shy.

"Right. You're right. You should get some rest," he's pulling away. Hr opportunity to bring herself back; him reaching out to help her; she's pushing away. She can feel him already giving up on her. Slowly. She's pushing him away, and she can feel herself longing not to. "I'll let you go. Try to sleep, okay?"

"Wait, Hotch," she leans against the wall. It almost hurts to accept his offer. She's not used to receiving help; she's not used to going out, either. "Did you say pizza? Like cheese and pepperoni?"

The smile is slightly reappearing in his tone. "Well, yeah," he leans down, tousles Jack's full head of brown hair. "And peppers, if I have any say in the order."

"Peppers?" she perks up. Even if it's an artificial perkiness, it might not sound so fake over the phone. "I like peppers. I'll go out with you guys, if that's alright."

"Yeah, I called you," he laughs slightly. Not an actual laugh, but a shy, friendly one. Like an old friend teasing an old friend back. "We'll be there soon."

"I'll be ready." She clicks off, hangs the phone up and gets herself dressed into something nicer. Even throws on some makeup. Tousles her hair until it's evenly parted down the middle and shiny. She tries to ignore the rumbling in her stomach. Part nervousness, part exhilaration, part morning sickness, all rolled into one dangerous, vicious package.

* * *

She's waiting outside. The air is very cool on her bare legs. She's now reconsidering the dress she decided on. A casual dress; definitely not anything like the dress she wore last night. Something more flattering for Hotch to see her in. She tried to find something around her place to give to Jack, but found nothing appropriate for a kid. A soap dish seemed out of the question. She bounced up and down on her heels to get warm, until Hotch's car reeled in. She saw Jack's little head bobbing in the backseat, behind the tinted windows. Climbing into the passenger seat, she instantly felt thankful for Hotch's killer vents. Just like earlier, she places her hands in front of the vent, getting herself warmed.

"You didn't have to wait outside," he tells her, flicking the heat on a higher setting. She sends a grateful smile his way, but it goes unnoticed. "I could have just honked or knocked or something."

"No big deal," she shrugs her shoulders, then shakes herself out of her coat, folding it neatly on her lap. Hotch eyes it, smirks a little.

"I thought you were cold." He says, making a right on red.

"I am," she begins picking lint off of the material, then flicking it off of her fingers. "But I'm not a big fan of wearing coats. They feel big and uncomfortable on me."

He looks at her for a moment, his face hard to read, maybe more than ever. He almost looks ready to start laughing, or maybe start smiling, but just stares at her, slightly curious and interested. She meets his eyes, her lips playful and subtly smirking, too. He looks like he's about to comment. But doesn't. The one time she wanted to hear what he had to say.

He pulls into the Georgy's Pizza parking lot, and Jack instantly becomes energized and excited, leaning in earnestly and concentrated, like his one and biggest concern is getting a slice of pizza with his dad. Emily turns in her seat, looks at Jack's lit-up face. "Hungry?" she asks him, smiling.

Jack nods, bites on his bottom lip, somehow quiet all of a sudden. Hotch shuts the car off, unbuckles. "Jack gets shy sometimes," he tells her, pulling the keys out of the ignition. "Don't feel offended. You won't be able to quiet him down once he gets food in him." He turns in his seat, looks back at his eager son. "Ready?"

Jack nods with sincerity and when Hotch comes around the car, takes hold of his father's hand and follows his lead into the pizza place. Emily follows after, watching them carefully, with a slight smile. Hotch is just so different around Jack. It's so painfully obvious it smacks you in the face. Hotch's all-around kindness is hard to miss. He politely pays for Emily's slice and the bread sticks, and tips the waitress extra well. The most impressive thing above all, though, is the light in his eyes. It never, ever leaves them. How humble and happy Hotch is outside of his job. Emily feels sad about this. She wonders just how much being an FBI agent takes from him. Jack, too.

Hotch unfolds Jack's napkin, and places it on his lap voluntarily. Then passes Emily hers. "You like peppers, right?" he asks. She shoots her face up, almost stunned and confused. "You said on the phone, that you like peppers. You wanted that, right? Because I ordered us the same thing."

"Oh, yeah, right," she nods quickly, trying to pull herself back into this moment, out of her head and her thoughts, where she's silently dissecting Hotch like she's been dissecting herself. "Peppers are good, thanks."

Jack comments on something about soda. Hotch smiles and says something, jokingly. Emily watches, feeling like an outsider, somehow. Like a stranger staring in, watching them. How perfectly they play out the ideal picture of a father and son. It almost looks fake, but she knows Hotch well enough to know this is the truth. It has to be. Hotch is nothing if not genuine and true.

"Here you go," the waitress says, placing slices in front of all three of them. Hotch smiles at her, says thank you, and sips his water. Jack sits up straighter in the booth, taking hold of his kiddie cup, plucking the straw in the hole and taking a large sip.

"So, how are you?" Hotch asks, picking at something on his crust. Emily almost laughs. Hotch eating pizza. It almost seems illegal, somehow. But then the question comes to her, and she immediately feels guarded. Is he really going to bring up you-know-what with Jack here? She sneaks a look at Jack, who is far too preoccupied with the pepperoni on his pizza, picking piece aftter piece off, eating them, soon leaving the pizza with just cheese.

Hotch looks up at her and gives a subtle shake of his head, wordlessly informing her that he's not going to bring it up. Not that. She lets out a breath, relieved and steady. "I'm fine," she forces herself to nibble on the tip of the pizza, although she's hardly hungry at all. "How are you?"

He looks up, unreadable again. But his face is trying to say something to her. Like, he's not the one she should be worried about right now. She shoots him another look. That says, let's not go there.

* * *

The rest of the evening goes fine. They enjoy their pizza, and as Hotch said, Jack talked a lot more as time went on. The ride home was less awkward, especially once Hotch got Jack started on his love for the Star Wars franchise. Typical little boy. Emily fake-gushed along with him about it, every now and then sliding in a comment about it that would enlighten Jack. Now it was Hotch's turn to watch them interact, his face far less serious and intent than Emily's was. Emily felt lonely and misplaced watching them two together; Hotch somehow feels the opposite. Emily notices Hotch's face soften with something as soon as he pulls into the drive, dropping her off. She looks at him, long enough to try to figure out what look that is on his face, but gives up after he catches her staring.

"I'm going to walk her to the door," Hotch says, after she shuts the car door. "Jack, you stay right here. Do not get out."

"You don't have to follow me," she says, carrying her coat on her arm. Though she says this, Hotch is, as he said, walking her to the door.

"I don't mind. It's late, and you should be careful," he glances down at her belly, hidden behind the silvery silk of her dress, but doesn't say another word. They reach the porch, up the steps and now, arrive in front of her door. This close to Hotch, she recognizes the look on his face. He's lonely. He's not ready for her to go. She looks at him strangely, recoignizing the face from seeing it in the mirror so many times lately.

Hotch looks at her weird, too. "What?" he instantly becomes concerned, panic mode flicking on. "Are you alright? Is the-" but he doesn't continue, doesn't go there, like he promised.

She nods. "Yeah, I'm fine," she says, the elephant in the room getting harder to navigate around. "Thanks, though. I had fun. Jack is a great kid."

"He is, yeah," Hotch looks back at his car. At the window where Jack's face is behind, even though it's impossible to see at nighttime, with the tinted windows. "I had fun, too. He did, I'm sure. We should do it again sometime."

"Sure," she smiles, reaching for the cold, lonely doorknob. "Just let me know when you guys will be having father and son time again. I'd love to intrude."

Hotch releases a short laugh, his sneakers scuffing on the porch. "Hopefully we will soon," his smile fades, his eyes darken; he grows serious. Just as she walks in, he steps closer. The air is so cold his breath turns into puffs of white smoke in the air, but feels warm on her face. "The offer still stands, Emily. If you need to talk."

"Tonight wasn't a good time," she says.

"I know, but I mean, anytime after this." He's standing there, almost waiting. Like he expects her to now, with Jack waiting in the car, to decide to let him read her autobiography. Not going to happen. Not like this. Not with his desperate brown eyes and convincing body language, leaning against the door frame. She looks at him, up and down, vulnerable and tempting. She can almost feel herself wanting him inside, here with her. Maybe for the rest of the night. But no, that's impossible. She couldn't use Hotch that way. The first guy she can look at without feeling sick to her stomach; she cannot use him to change her view on men. That would be beyond wrong. She shakes her head.

"I don't think so," she reaches for the door, to close it. "But thanks. Goodnight, Hotch. Tell Jack I said goodnight."

"I will," disappointed and rejected, he slowly walks away from the door. "Goodnight, Emily."

She smiles a forced, lonely smile, and watches his excited face fade into that same old solemn, dull expression he usually wore. Peering out behind the curtains, watching him climb into the car, her eyes light up with recognition. His face is not expressionless at all; it's just a face of overdue isolation and loneliness. No one ever really saw Hotch as getting lonely; at least Emily never really did. But she understands now, that at the table earlier, they felt a whole lot like a family. An oddly placed family. Even more so on the ride home. He wanted her to speak up. He wanted to feel needed.

She felt strong need for him, standing there, looking vulnerable and touchable. Something tells her that if Jack wasn't in the car, she could have reached out and touched him, pulled him in, asked him to stay. And he just might have.


	5. Dundundun

I'm baaaaaack...

Teehee. Go read my About Me on my profile to understand this a little better ;)

XO.


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